"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. It doesn't happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.

The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

--The Velveteen Rabit

"All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened, and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you, and afterwards it all belongs to you."

And other people saw the Wrongness, and were inspired by it, and lo, there was much fic. And it was good.

The possibilities are endless, in just about any fandom. Think of the pairings available within PotC alone. The obvious Jack/Black Pearl and Barbossa/Apple, Will/Sword (he practices three hours a day), Jack the Monkey/Medallion, Elizabeth/Medallion (it lay nestled between her breasts, perfectly content…), Elizabeth/Corset (BDSM, anyone?), Jack/Hat, Norrington/Hat, Will/Hat, Governor Swann/Wig (OMG, OTP!!!11!), Jack/Scarf…

I still can't bring myself to write RP fic of any sort, but think of the possibilities...

[Edit] Here, for y'all's reading pleasure, is my own contribution to the evil.

He lifts her onto his lap, settling her across his thighs. She still fits against him as perfectly as she always has, her smooth back against his stomach, her curves begging to be touched.

It is impossible to resist. Slowly, he slides his fingers down her neck, across her belly, caressing her, feeling the tension in her strings. She is ready for him, strung tight, waiting to be used. She is always ready.

He closes his eyes and holds her close, touching her throat, letting fingertips pull and stroke over her strings. And she sings for him. Moans sounds of pleasure and pain that fill that empty place inside of him like nothing else can. His hands might be scarred and bloodstained, but they can still move her like no one else’s.

He bends over her all his attention focused on her, on the way she vibrates against him, on the noises the makes, just for him. Somewhere near bye, others are listening to them, but right now those others don’t matter. Right now there is only him and her, moving together in rhythm, her music a wall against the blood and the dust, a refuge, an escape.

“You are always bored,” he sighs, annoyed at the interruption. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn around.

A hand reaches around him and, with unerring accuracy, slaps down over her strings, stilling them. “I said, I’m bored. Come on. We’ve got places to go, people to kill. Cut the brooding musician shit and let’s get moving.”

He sighs, and regretfully pulls his hands away from her. She makes a faint sound as he does so, as unwilling as he is to let their interlude end. He gives her shoulder a pat as he settles her back in her bed, promising more time together later this evening.Then he reached around her and pulls out one of the guns that sleep next to her. His others lovers can be very demanding.